


Faustus

by Komaesa



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Historical References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Komaesa/pseuds/Komaesa
Summary: Aaron Burr had an interesting, progressively sad & lonely life following the duel with Alexander Hamilton.Including: being charged with murder in two states, surviving a proverbial hurricane, an alleged plot to start a war with Spain, wandering Europe with no hope of securing a passport home, fluctuating rates of poverty—and the legacy of what he'd done, and the family he harmed, following him to the literal date of his death at the age of 80.It was enough that would have convinced any man that he had been cursed, but Burr knew better.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. Weehawken, 1804

**Author's Note:**

> This re-telling is partly based on real letters, documents, Burr’s personal journal, first-hand accounts, etc., and partly based on fiction, because if Lin can make stuff up and rearrange events to make things more entertaining then I can too. 
> 
> For that reason it’ll be tagged as Hamilton and RPF (don’t know if that’s a common thing here, this project is my first interaction with the fandom.

_“Oh, My God, My God, My God!_

_I have been Damned to Hell Eternal!”_

_\- Cenodoxus_

_**July 11. 1804** _

“Weapons at the ready, Gentleman.”

Burr’s pulse quickened. A heaviness washed over him and a powerful thudding had settled in his chest. A thudding in his ears— _loud_ , so _loud_. Surely the others could hear it, too?

Was he shaking? Only moments ago, Burr had felt assured within himself, but he was. Truly, he was unsettled. Those gestures Hamilton had made moments before—fiddling with his weapon within play view of Burr, delaying the start of the duel so he could adjust his spectacles—deeply, _deeply_ unsettled him. Was he sending him a message? A warning? A tactic of intimidation? A foreshadowing of doom?

His mind reeled, his guise of sensibility slipping, replaced with perhaps every fear, every urgent, paranoid, nonsensical thought that he had ever had. In that split second, Burr questioned everything he knew about Alexander Hamilton. A hot-headed, relentless, _nightmare_ of a man who was equal parts legendary for his public tantrums, as well as a willingness to scathe anyone in the press who so much as disagreed with him or his affiliates. Like a dog that would bite the instant you laid a finger on it. A man with the power and influence to ruin the career of any man he wished. A man who, Burr had on good authority, participated in no less then _ten_ affairs of honor, to date--one of which even Burr himself had intervened in! He was quick-tempered, fierce, at times rather underhanded and dastardly, but was he... could he... _would_ he try to kill him? Mentally, Burr thought he had steeled himself to the possibility days beforehand when he sat down to write his dearest Theodosia a letter of goodbye, but the reality of the situation was beginning to shift and gnaw at his thoughts. _My daughter... my grandson..._

Burr honestly didn't know if Hamilton was capable of such a thing, but what he _did_ know was he wasn't willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not this time. _It's him or me._

“Steady…” He felt his breath hitch in his throat, his expression had surely soured though he wasn’t aware enough to tell, much less care. Burr ever so slightly began to shift his weight, tensing his calves as he readied himself to spin on his ankles once the command was given. _It's him or me, it's him or me..._

His finger pulsated on the trigger, the pounding in his head was getting louder and louder--

“Present, and fire!” Burr whirred around, his gun pointed at an angle but not quite raised in an offensive position. He and Hamilton locked eyes a mere moment, standing there, unmoving, until--

He saw Hamilton raise the pistol in his hand. He had no choice now.

_HIM OR ME, HIM OR ME._

Burr shot straight, not caring where the bullet hit as long as it _hit_. He heard a second pop, and a force from Hamilton’s side of the clearing whizzed towards him. Burr clenched his teeth and forced his eyes shut. But Hamilton had missed his target. Burr had not.

Hamilton’s Second, a Mr. Nathaniel Pendleton, rushed to his side as he crumpled. “Doctor! Doctor, please!” Pendleton all but wailed to the sky. There was urgency in his voice, and pain in his face. He cradled Hamilton, seemingly forcing the dying man into a conversation, holding a finger in the air and wagging it about as if to keep Hamilton focused on something— _anything_.

Red. The ground was red.

Burr squinted. Perhaps it was the angle, perhaps it was the fact that there was _so much blood_ , but it was impossible for him to tell where the bullet had hit Hamilton. All at once, the venerable Dr. Hosack rushed from the tree line, supplies at the ready. There was a split moment at time where he exchanged glances with Burr, wide-eyed and confused, before he realized the severity of the situation. Hamilton sputtered out, “…This—this is a mortal wound, Doctor!” _What?_ Burr’s face tightened. The pistol had suddenly felt monstrously heavy in his grip.

Van Ness unsheathed an umbrella from his person, opening it in a huff to obscure Burr’s face. “Perhaps we should be leaving now.”

“Nonsense,” Burr scoffed, nudging him aside. He took a hesitant step towards him. As was customary, once the shots were fired, you needed to speak man-to-man to one another. Whatever the outcome, satisfaction must be reached. “General Hamil—”

“Colonel, do you not _see_!” He grabbed the duelist by the arm, more forcefully than he intended, which jolted Burr. Hamilton had, seeming all at once, gone limp. From the pain, one would imagine. “Don’t disrupt the Doctor’s work.” He yanked him again. “Back to the boat, Sir, I beg you! Someone will see!"


	2. Richmond Hill, 1804

_"Ah Faustus,_   
_Now hast thou but one bare hour to live_   
_And then thou must be damned perpetually!_   
_Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,_   
_That time may cease and midnight never come;_   
_Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make_   
_Perpetual day; or let this hour be but_   
_A year, a month, a week, a natural day,_   
_That Faust may repent and save his soul!"_

_-Faustus_

_**July 11, 1804 - Midday ** _

Against his insistence, and quickly coming to realize that maybe he wouldn’t be welcomed at Hamilton’s side, Burr relented and was ushered down the path and back to the boat. Van Ness had taken off his coat and draped it over Burr to obscure his face as he was brought (or _smuggled_ ) back towards the city. There was no more chatter amongst the rowers as there had been on the way to the grounds. There was no place for it. Instead the atmosphere was sullen. Burr spoke not a word to anyone, but instead stared downward at his knees and, more fixedly, at his hands; palms up, fingers splayed out, twitching, as if he could imagine blood. Hamilton’s blood.

Colonel Burr felt calm enough, though he wagered that the shock of the situation had just numbed him. He felt _calm_ in the same way the eye of a hurricane felt _calm_ ; peaceful as long as he stayed where he was. As long as he didn’t think about _what he had done_. But it was only temporary; sooner or later, they’d know—they’d all know. Hamilton’s family—Hamilton’s friends—Hamilton’s business partners— _the whole of New York_ — ** _the whole of the country_**.And then Burr's life as he knew it would be over.

If Hamilton lived through this ordeal? Burr wagered that Hamilton’s condition would no doubt drum up sympathies among his family—no question, they would speak vitriol about Burr to anyone who would listen. His friends? They'd see his paltry condition and become Hamilton's personal attack dogs. His enemies? Politically speaking, they’d most likely make a big spectacle about visiting him at his sickbed. Burr recalled hearing an anecdote at a tavern about Jefferson ( _President_ Jefferson) making a spectacle of visiting Mt. Vernon to pay his respects to George Washington—a year after he had died.

Martha Washington called it one of the worst days of her life.

Perhaps Hamilton would use that to his advantage—publicly making peace with his adversaries in exchange for 'favors’ in the press. Burr could see it vividly; Hamilton dictating a scathing, multi-page attack ad about Burr to some eager newspaper reporter at his bedside, telling tales of how Burr shot first, in cold blood, while Hamilton (oh, yes, _poor_ Hamilton) had no intentions of even raising his pistol. He’d have that in turn be endorsed by some of his most powerful friends, passing it from capital to capital and soon Burr would have nowhere to run. His career in politics _ruined_ , his law practice _disgraced_ , his lineage _mocked_ , his honor more damaged that he ever thought possible.

But most of all, Hamilton would be proven _right_.

Right about all the lies he'd spewed about Burr over the years; that he was dangerous, that he lacked morals, that he lacked honor--that he was **_despicable_**. He would be branded a man who wasn't above something as disgusting as murder if it meant political gain. None of these things were true, of course, but Burr wasn't in control of the narrative anymore. Or... had he ever been in the first place?

And if Hamilton died because of this? The consequences would be worse. So, so much worse.

* * *

Burr jolted as the rowboat knocked against the side of the dock. Van Ness handed the rowers a dollar each as was agreed upon and steadied himself to climb onto the dock. He motioned for the man to stay put a moment as he walked to the connecting street and glanced down either side. "I see no one," he stated matter-of-factly. "Come, Colonel. Let me take you to Richmond."

His residence, Richmond Hill, was a sprawling treasure of an estate (his 5th home in his lifetime) that he had purchased in 1794, yet even before that it served as headquarters for General Washiongton as well as the home of John and Abigail Adams during his Administration. He didn't much care for either (in fact he _loathed_ Washington, to be clear), but it was a conversation piece that he tended to employ whenever he had company--it also severed as a clever trick to suss out a person's political leanings, depending if they were impressed or not. It was lavish with high windows, balconies, greenery as far as the eye could see, and more rooms than a family much larger than Burr's could ever possibly need or utilize. _All the more room to hide in._

Van Ness placed a guiding hand on Burr's back as they walked briskly towards the home. The streets were surprisingly clear for a Wednesday morning, fortunate for them. Not that Burr could tell, as he resumed staring downward as to not meet another person's eyes unintentionally. He had no idea how disheveled or out of place he looked in that moment, but he couldn't stand the thought of looking another person in the eye. His fear and guilt would betray him in seconds. Yet, the reached the front of Richmond Hill without incident and without too many confused glances from passerbys on the street. His face had been obscured enough that, hopefully, no one had known it was him. Once the men had made their way inside, Burr's legs felt impossibly weak.

He crashed at once against his friend, who staggered to prop him up against the wall. Instead, Burr slumped to the floor, staring wide-eyed as the adrenaline finally wore off and the fear was beginning to set in. His body felt like it was _dying_ , his face and person suddenly slick with sweat. He seemed to pulse with waves of unbearable temperatures washing over him--chill, heat, chill, heat. His chest was pounding, his ears pounding, his blood pounding--everything was _pounding._ He let out one desperate, shaky gasp. He needed to _breathe._

William P. Van Ness, _convinced_ that his friend was suffering the same onset of 'bilious fevers' that he had heard tales of James Madison suffering from, knelt and, in a misguided attempt at calming him, held him firmly in place to the wall. Burr squirmed in response, struggling harder and gasping louder. Van Ness called out the name of Burr's dearest servant girl, Peggy, but the two were raising such a ruckus that the entire household came to the front parlor. His daughter, her husband, Burr's grandchild and six servants all piled into the room, each with an appropriate reaction of concern, fear and confusion. Aaron Burr was not a man to make displays like this.  
  
"Papa!" His dearest daughter, Theodosia, rushed to him at once, clearly having similar thoughts as Van Ness did about a medical emergency--perhaps a heart attack, or a stroke. Something Burr, honestly, would have _preferred_ right now. She touched his face, lovingly, and drew her eyes to him. "Breathe, Papa!"

_Breathe. Breathe. Calm. Calm. I'm here. She's here. Everything will be fine. Everything has to be fine._

"My... apologies for frightening you," he finally managed to whisper. He cleared his throat. "I was overcome with my emotions for a moment, but I... am fine. Truly. Now that you're here." It was miraculous. His change in demeanor was miraculous. Just a few short seconds with his daughter had calmed him to the point he could have forgotten the events of that morning altogether, or the world outside Richmond Hill existed at all. It may as well not have. He reached up to fiddle with a lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "I did not know you were home, I thought you had taken your family into the city for the day." He felt guilt. How embarrassing it must be to see your father, father-in-law or grandfather in such a state when your should be enjoying a summer vacation. He was meant to dote on _them_ , not the other way around.

"We hadn't left yet, Papa." Theodosia glanced worriedly to her husband, then to her child. "But... now I don't think we should be leaving. I don't want to leave you like this." 

"Nonsense," he said. "What will your little one think? He's been looking forward to seeing that new toy shop I've been teasing him about. You can't deny him the chance to be spoiled with Grandpa's money, Theo. It's what I live for." As if on cue, a toddler emerged from behind his father's breeches, holding out his hands and babbling as if in agreement. The sight was enough to make Burr smile wide. "There he is! Come..." he corralled the tiny boy into his lap and held him. "What do you think about that, little Gamp?" 

"I would... like to, Papa, but please tell me what's happened. Is this to do with the note you left in my name?"

"You don't have to worry about that... it is done now."

"Done? What is... done?" Burr neglected to answer and rose up off the floor with his squirmy grandson in his arms. Then, he had a thought. An awful thought.

His family, traipsing about the city as the word of what Burr had done finally reaches the public. Police would descend upon them like vultures, capture them, question them--withhold Burr's right to visit with them and, worst of all, force testimonies against Burr. They weren't innocent in this. Not to the public. They were Burrs. He had to keep them safe--the world might turn against him, but this family was all he had. "On... second thought, perhaps you shouldn't go. At least not for a few more days. Stay here... with me. Please." 

"Sir." Van Ness spoke up from behind. "I should be leaving, Sir. But I will return as soon as I can."

"Please!" Burr insisted. "Once you receive news, any at all, please report it to me at once."

"Of course, Sir."

* * *

The next several hours Burr spend attempting to distract himself, but even within the company of his daughter and his dearest, _dearest_ grandson, it was becoming rather difficult was time wore on. He tried to read, but the words muddled and warped into an unreadable mess that could scarcely keep his focus. He tried to listen to his daughter play piano, but the melody seemed to irritate him more than anything. Idle conversation with his son-in-law, Joseph Alston, was more taxing than it had previously been. Eventually, Burr had come to the conclusion that he was tired, and tried to settle himself for a nap in his armchair. Then on the couch. Then retreating to his bedchamber. But sleep would not come easy either.

Eventually, half-past the 11th hour of the night, there was a knock on the door. Theodosia, who was weary but was adamant to stay up with her father as to not leave him alone with his thoughts, sprung to the door and, after a brief moment of fear, Burr stiffened at the sight of Van Ness.

"News? Do you bring news?" His tone was rushed, but optimistic. He rose to meet Van Ness so he could better read his expression.

"I... Sir, I do." Van Ness' demeanor had changed. It was cautious and downtrodden. His eyes weren't hopeful. "The General is alive, but... we do not know for how long, Sir."

Burr felt another well in his chest, and a wash of nausea. "What... do you mean? He's conscious, is he not? Free of pain? If he has survived this long, then why not until morning? Why not until the next day?"

"Because I've witnessed him," Van Ness confirmed. "We spoke, he is with Dr. Hosack at Judge Bayards' home now. He he has lost feeling in his body, Sir. His pulse is not fair either."

Every word spoken tightened the knot in Burr's stomach. He stared at him a long while, incredulously. "So what am I do to, then?" 

"At present, he is still... conscious, if you would like to see him. I fear this may be your only chance, Sir. To right wrongs. I'll attend him with you, if you would like--"

"I'll visit in the morning," Burr said with a tone of finality. "Let him sleep."

"If... you say so, Sir. Remember, he is with Mr. Bayards."

"I know the address. Goodnight."

* * *

Except, for Colonel Burr, it was anything but a good night.

As time approached 3AM, he had finally convinced Theodosia to retire to her own room for much needed sleep. She needn't worry about him, or the trouble he caused for himself. He sat by candlelight in the library, parchment scattered all over the floor as he wrote and discard letter after letter. First it was too formal, then not formal enough--then too long, too short, too friendly, too apathetic, too **_groveling_**.

What was he to say? How would he even begin? Should he acknowledge it, or should he not? Will the letter even be received well? Would they want to hear anything at all from him? Perhaps if he pretended it was written by someone else on his behalf? Would they believe him? Would they not? After hours of deliberating with himself, Burr made his decision and, shortly after 6AM, penned a final letter to his friend:

_"Mr. Burr’s respectful compliments –_

  
_He requests Dr. Hosack to inform him of the pre-sent state of Genl H. and of the hopes which are entertained of his recovery._   
_Mr. Burr begs to know at what hour of the day the Dr. may most probably be found at home that he may repeat his inquiries – He would take it very kind if the Dr. would take the trouble of calling on him as he returns from Mr. Bayards’_   


_Thursday ** ~~11 July~~**_   
_12 July_

Aaron Burr's letter did not reach Judge Bayards' until after Alexander Hamilton had died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter written by Burr in the aftermath (yes, this is the actual letter that he wrote) adds a REALLY interesting angle to the discussion of whether or not Burr actually intended to kill. While it’s true that he was quoted by a newspaper as saying “had his vision not been impaired” he would have shot Hamilton in the heart, what people don't tell you is that he said that 20 years after the actual duel--when his reputation had already been ruined, his family had all died, and he was penniless. Pretty sure he just hated everyone and everything at that point. But this letter in the moment implies to me that he either did feel guilt or was terrified of the repercussions if Hamilton died (in which case why would he intend to kill him in the first place?)
> 
> Because, other than the newspaper, there's no record of him saying something explicitly nasty ABOUT Hamilton (he was actually very adamant about reaffirming what a gentleman Hamilton was every time he spoke about him), other than a few instances that just sound like edgy humor to me rather than out of anger (I can't find the context anywhere, but he would supposedly say "my friend Hamilton, whom I shot," casually in conversation--but, since I can't find the context, I kind of just interpret that as Burr acknowledging what people already knew and already hated him for (kind of like how if you're self-conscious of something you make fun of it before other people have a chance to, y'know?) It's complicated and since he's been dead almost 200 years we're never going to fully know, but that's always been my theory.


	3. Richmond Hill, 1804

_"Fools that will laugh on Earth,_

_Must weep in Hell"_

**July 12, 1804 **

Theodosia had risen considerably early—and eagerly—in comparison to the hours of sleep she had allowed herself. Though, it was much easier to wake yourself up if you were considerably anxious about something, a sentiment which suited her situation. She rose and dressed, not fully, but in a floor-length muslin coat and slippers, leaving her bedchamber as silently as she could manage to walk about the house. The summer’s sun, already rising high, made it easy for her to navigate down to the hall to her father’s bedchamber to peak inward. His bed had been made with a particular tidiness that Theodosia knew a man like Aaron Burr did not possess. It had to have been Peggy, but Peggy most definitely wouldn’t have disturbed him this early on a day he had no active cases at his firm, just to make his bed?

He was still in the library, of course. Theodosia rolled her eyes, wondering why her father couldn’t just have his bed moved down here with as often as he choose to fall asleep in there. He had always done this, even as far back as her earliest memories in childhood. Burr was face down and slumped at his desk, rising and falling in conjunction with his heaving, snoring breaths. He still mostly dressed in the previous day’s clothes, but having fully unbuttoned his vest and rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Empty sheets of parchment were strewn about the floor with other crumpled papers, and there was a particular scent of burned wick in the air that signified to Theodosia that the candles on the desk—or, what was left of them—had only recently been put out. Perhaps within the last few minutes, even.

“Papa?” She roused him in her most soothing tone, reserved only for comforting her small child from a nightmare, or tender moments with her husband. “Papa?” Burr growled, shifting his shoulders and turning his face further away until she shook him. Then seemingly all at once, he snapped up in alarm.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost 7, Papa. You’re in the library. Did you just now fall asleep?”

“Within the hour,” he grumbled and swiped at his eyes. “Must be…” his back had stiffened intensely and he groaned as he arched himself to a sitting position. “I had Carlos run to deliver a letter on my behalf and…” his mind stalled, “…I don’t remember much else.”

“You should sleep,” his daughter suggested. “In your bed, this time. I can call for Peggy to bring breakfast up to you in a few hours if you’d prefer that?”

Burr shook his head, “No, no, I should…” he stood up, wincing as his knees creaked. “I’ll be fine. A short nap was… all I needed to get through the day. I’ll go to bed early tonight to set my schedule back in order.”

“If you say so.”

* * *

The morning passed into breakfast and the atmosphere was overall jovial, so much so that Aaron Burr could have thought that the previous day’s events were nothing but his imagination. Nothing else mattered to him in that moment but the allure of salted ham and eggs, a favorite of the household. Burr eyed his grandson—who, by birth, was called Aaron Burr Alston III, but Burr insisted on the nickname Gampy after a humorous interaction with him as an infant—and set him on his lap, where he spent the majority of the hour teaching him table etiquette. He guided him by the wrists, puppeteering him in such a way that he waved to each person at the table. First to his Mama, then to his Papa, then to Peggy, Alexis and Carlos. It amused each person equally, but perhaps no more than the grandfather who sat at the head of the table. “Now, Gamp, when you want to ask for something, what must you say?”

“Say 'Please'!”

“Yes. good! And when you receive what you ask for?”

“Thank you!” The boy made tiny fists and Burr pumped them into the air in a triumphant display.

“Yes! Always… to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ is vital to being a Gentleman. Any effort a person makes on your behalf should be shown appreciation.” The child listened intently, very keen to absorb any information his grandfather gave him. “No matter who it is—each person should be treated equally in this regard. Peggy works very hard for us, so next time you see her, I want you to tell her thank you for helping you get dressed so nicely today.”

True to Burr’s words, the littlest Alston was dressed in an extravagantly—perhaps, Burr conceded, a tad too much for a boy as notoriously messy as he was. An olive green waist coat with brown trousers, matching breeches and freshly shined shoes—it was clearly the outfit Theodosia had chosen for their family excursion into the city but, as that wasn’t happening, she elected to have it worn today to please her father. And please him it did. Upon seeing him carefully descend the stairs, Burr reflexively put a hand to his mouth in apparent wonderment.

“What a little Gentleman you’ve brought me...” he commended aloud, praising his dress and his mother’s eye for color coordination. He joked freely throughout the morning and the two were attached at the hip, as it usually was when the family came to visit Burr.

But such happy times were not to last, and soon a proverbial gloom would settle over Richmond Hill.  
  


* * *

By afternoon, the Burr-Hamilton duel had all but been forgotten by Burr and his own family, who were none the wiser to the events of July 11th, had no forethought to ask him about his change of mood. They all sat in the parlor engaged in conversation among themselves, Theodosia at the piano and Burr on his hands-and-knees on the floor, playing a rousing game of horse with his grandson. He bucked and neighed about as his precious Gamp tried valiantly to hold on, giggling and hollering all the while. Toys scattered the floor, and a blanket had been fastened to the top of four chairs, all parallel with one another in a sort of fort formation. It was not a day that was wasted, that was for sure.

But around 4PM, after the excitement was beginning to die down, there was a knock at the door. Van Ness stood there, sullen and stoic. He greeted the room with a nod but wasn't willing to spend any of his time on the small talk or pleasantries that Theodosia tried to engage in. "May I speak to you alone, Colonel? I have news."  
  
  
Then, it hit him. Burr snapped to attention, "You bring news? I sent off a letter this morning, perhaps around 6, but I haven't received any reply."

"There is a reason for that," Van Ness responded, flatly. He moved further into the house and motioned for Burr to follow him, "I've been asked to tell you some things. It won't take long."

And so the two men found themselves back in Richmond Hill's library. The fear of knowing had yet to set in for Burr until, upon turning his back, he heard the soft click of the lock on the door. Van Ness stood there, stiff and with his mouth pressed tightly. He gestured. "You should sit."

"I shall stand, thank you," Burr replied indignantly. "Well?" He turned to look at him with a half-annoyed, half-impatient expression, willing him with his eyes to speak. Van Ness paused for a long time.

"General Hamilton has died, Sir."


	4. Escape Plans

Burr should have listened. Burr should have sat down.

The world beneath him seemed to shift suddenly. A painful shock to the gut, a chill rippling down his body from head to toe. Every fear he had ever had seemed to realize itself simultaneously; Hamilton was _dead_. Burr was petrified. His first thoughts were of Hamilton—though, not specifically _of_ Hamilton; more to the point his immediate thoughts, if he were to vocalize them, would have been surely condemned as selfish, maybe even sociopathic. His first reaction was a quiet, unjustifiable rage, as if Hamilton had chosen to die to further spite Burr’s career. As if this was _his_ fault.

Career? The notion seemed comical now. What career could a man like he have now? That much was evident, there was no pulling strings or charming his way out of this—he had _killed_ a man. And for what? This didn’t satisfy him—it left him hollow, angry, afraid… and another man dead. He swayed and weakened as he felt his blood pressure rise, gripping ferociously to the lip of the desk until his knuckles whitened. Burr shut his eyes, tightly as if to banish all thoughts. As if he could wake up and discover this was all a nightmare. “How long?”.

“Within an hour. I’ve only just received word myself.” 

Burr hung his head, letting out a breath. The anger had deflated within him, but the dread had taken root. “I’m a dead man,” he proclaimed. How ironic. Burr’s sudden, animalistic need to preserve his own life—to remain alive for daughter—were ultimately fruitless. He was going to die anyway. He was going to die, neck snapped clean like a butchered animal. “I’m…”

Van Ness held a closed fist to his chest, hesitant to say much. “… I wouldn’t say such things, Colonel. As you know, New Jersey—”

“But he died in _New York._ ”

“No one who has ever met in a duel has ever been prosecuted—”

“ _Then they’ll surely make an example of me, won’t they?_ ” Burr hissed, exerting all of his weight onto the desk. “Hamilton… _Hamilton_ of all people—it was Hamilton! Even so, do you honestly think his bloodhounds won’t come for me in the night—cut my throat, or cart me off to the gallows like some common animal? After the public embarrassment he put me through, they’ll wager that I killed him in cold-blood! An old-fashioned tar-and-feathering in the street—parade my corpse about like a marionette…”

Van Ness nodded, “I know… that’s why I came to warn you, sir. I believe it’s best… if you the leave the city until this situation subsides.”

“Go into hiding, you mean?”

“If that’s the word you would like to use, sir. I just don’t think your presence in the city would be… welcome right now.” If it ever was.

“But… my… ah, my family… I need to tell them.” Burr staggered like a drunkard towards the library doors, shouldering his way through and frantically calling for his daughter. “Theo? Theo?”

Theodosia emerged into the room with her husband in tow and Burr all but threw himself onto her. He held her in silence for several long moments before regaining the composure to speak. “Theo… listen to me: I need you to pack your trunks—no more than two days, but I would like to send you home by tomorrow night.”

There was a desperation in his voice that no doubt alarmed the young woman, as was quickly evident in her face. “Papa—”

“No questions, Theo. I’ve done something dreadful and I’m afraid people in this city will come to act against me. Any information I say aloud could implicate you in this. I couldn’t bear that. I need you and your family safe, away from here.”

“This is about General Hamilton, isn’t it?” Theodosia had always been apt at parsing out information—having briefly glanced at one of her father’s discarded letters that morning and coming to her own conclusions. Truthfully she didn’t know exactly what the topic of contention was, but her father was not the man to stress over problems that were insignificant in nature. And while her father was restrained in the face of public slander to his character, Hamilton’s tirades against him were legendary. She could only assume it had escalated to something her father couldn't take back.

Burr nodded, but offered no explanation. She’d find out what he had done soon enough. “Go pack your things. Have Peggy assist your son.”

“What will you do, sir? If you yourself are in danger then why not come with us?” Joseph Alston spoke up—a rarity; not that he was necessarily a shy or a quiet man—as a politician, he could speak as well as any other—but in his personal life, he seldom spoke unless spoken to. “I will meet with you both once I understand the situation more clearly,” he decided. “For now I’ll make arrangements to go elsewhere as well. Where, though… is an answer that I should not speak to you directly about. At least not yet.”

* * *

The shift in mood had prompted a somber atmosphere throughout the house. Everyone seemed to retreat to their own corners, except for Burr and Van Ness who remained in the library, deep in their plots. Van Ness was adamant about not leaving the city, but supported Burr’s decision, however suspicious it would make him appear to others. The decision was for Burr to make his way to the southernmost tip of Georgia, where he could seek refuge with a Mr. Pierce Butler at his estate. Butler was a man he had struck a rapport with because of both men’s affiliation with the Senate.

An aristocrat from an Irish family, he gained a sizable amount of land, both in South Carolina and Georgia, through his first wife—though after her death he had mostly confined himself to the latter of the states. Truthfully, Burr knew little of him, but he knew he had been invited to St. Simmons Island and was in no position to refuse that request now. The prospect was tantalizing; a sprawling rice plantation, close to the coast along Georgia’s Golden Isles—such a thing sounded more like a vacation than a destination at the end of a fugitive’s journey.

Evening had well set in by the time the two men were bidding goodbyes to each other. There was no warmth in their words, though, and both men seemed defeated. But before Van Ness left the stood, he had one more poignant thing to say, an admission of which stunned Burr into silence.

“I would also like to tell you… that he forgave you, sir.”

“…Who?” Burr stared, blankly, Van Ness’ words seeming out of place in their current conversation. “General Hamilton, sir. He had was given communion shortly before death, and he told the Bishop that all had been forgiven. He did not die resenting you.”

Van Ness watched Burr intently, but he didn’t seem to react. Not in the way he had been expecting, anyway. He simply turned heel and walked through the doorframe of Richmond Hill, uttering a final “goodnight” before shutting the door in the man's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, historically speaking, Burr was stunned at the amount of public outrage he got, because he wasn't expecting it and genuinely did not see what he did as wrong. People kept asking him if he felt guilt over it for the rest of his life, and he always answered no.
> 
> Dueling was illegal, sure, but it was an accepted thing people did, while spectators turned their backs because the psychology behind chivalry and "gentleman culture" is honestly insane.


	5. July 15th, 1804

_**July 15, 1804** _

True to Burr’s words, a bevy of swift decisions were made within the following forty-eight hours.

The 48-year old patriarch, nor any of his guest, were not to leave Richmond Hill, instead sending his body servant, Peter Yates—a mischievous, yet good-natured young man whom Burr trusted with his life—on a series of errands about the town. ‘Missions,’ Peter would call them in his head. He delivered letters—alongside a promise for generous sums of cash that Burr, a man of staunch debt, was in _no_ position to actually give—to any coachman in the city Burr felt he could trust the task of ‘ensuring a discreet and safe voyage to for my most precious of cargo.’ As well, Peter would be given pocketfuls of coins to purchase a newspaper from every publication within several miles (Burr had begun making a game of which newspapers would have the most outrageous lies printed about him.)

Peter was rather sly in gathering information as well, smart as he was. Occasionally he would be stopped on the street, recognized for his allegiance to Mr. Burr, whom he regularly tailed after back and forth to the Colonel’s law practice. Men would interrogate him about Burr’s whereabouts and Peter would feign ignorance, using the opportunity to ferret further information. _“He has gone out of town, sir! Why, sir? Is Colonel Burr in trouble, sir?”_ Peter enjoyed the ruse very much, imaging himself a modern day Cato, a Black Patriot who worked hand-in-hand with Hercules Mulligan, hiding in plain sight amongst the enemy.

The _enemy_. Ironic.

As far as the world was concerned _Burr_ was the enemy, and the rumors about him that were circulating had gone from laughable to dangerous in the course of a short day. Rumors that Burr, rather than honorably going the course of _code duello_ , had broken into the Hamilton home late at night and shot the man dead out of a thirst for blood. This particularly unnerved him because, as Peter had overheard in a shop and later relayed with urgency, a small yet growing mob of men seemed to think about doing such a thing to Colonel Burr in return. Whether this was a genuine threat or not, it was one he was beginning to take very seriously.

The remainder of his slaves (of which there were two: Peggy and Nancy) were forbidden to do any work outside, to give the illusion that he had taken them out of town with him. Curtains were drawn, candlelight was scarcely used by windows, and Burr instructed every member of the house to not come into his bedchamber unannounced in the middle of the night ( _“bang and scream on the door if you must,”_ he’d say), lest he accidentally harm them with the pistol— _that_ pistol—he kept at the ready by his bed. He had vivid nightmares of such a thing: _Baby Gampillo sneaking into the room, too young to understand Burr’s wishes, a shadow stumbling towards him in the dark, Burr making another fatal mistake in his haze of sleeplessness—_ the thought pained him violently, tears welling in his eyes. Burr would sooner toss himself into the sea before the mob had a chance to touch him.

* * *

By July 15th, Burr had slept perhaps five hours total since that fateful morning. He had passed time smoking, drinking, reading and nearly overdosing on laudanum (losing count after fifty drops) but his mind could not quiet. Every bit of information he received via Peter had simultaneously aggravated, unnerved and terrified him. Burr had hoped things would calm down but it hadn’t; the Federalists were out for his head and the city would most likely claim the rest of him. The day before Burr had sent even Peter out to witness Hamilton's funeral procession. It was lovely, Peter recounted; Hamilton's prized horses were tacked immaculately surrounded by swathes of people of all age, class, race, and providence. He was given full military honors, and all his family was in attendance. All of _Manhattan_ was in attendance, rather. His eulogy was given by a personal friend, Gouverner Morris, and, to Burr's surprise and relief, he himself was not mentioned. It seemed that Morris went out of his way not to mention him--not out of a hatred or respect for him, but seemingly a fear for his safety, saying: _"You all know how he perished. On this last scene, I cannot, I must not dwell. It might excite emotions too strong for your better judgment. Suffer not your indignation to lead to any act which might again offend the insulted majesty of the law."_

Burr was touched to hear this, to tell the truth. Some would say it was more respect than Burr deserved, but it comforted him to know that he indeed wasn't alone.

Yet the most distressing information, and truly what has painted Burr in the image of an impulsive murderer, was an apologia written by Hamilton in the hours leading up to their encounter.

The apologia. That _damned_ apologia.

Having acquired a segment printed in the press as part of a larger expose of Burr, Peter read it allowed to him:

_“…As well because it is possible that I may have injured Col Burr, however convinced myself that my opinions and declarations have been well founded, as from my general principles and temper in relation to similar affairs—I have resolved, if our interview is conducted in the usual manner, and it pleases God to give me the opportunity, to reserve and throw away my first fire, and I have thoughts even of reserving my second fire—and thus giving a double opportunity to Col Burr to pause and to reflect…”_

Burr was incensed beyond belief, his body quivering and bristling as he leapt from his chair. “A liar! A _liar!_ A scoundrel, and a liar, and a dead man!” Very seldom did Burr raise his voice—not to his enslaved, not his family, not to his rivals, _anyone_ —and as rare as it was Peter tensed and reflexively took a step backwards. Perhaps he shouldn’t continue.

“Dead men tell no tales? _Bah!_ Clearly, they _tell tales!_ ” Burr gnashed his teeth, a perceptible darkening in his face. "You don't believe these falsehoods do you, Peter?"  
  
Peter, at once, vehemently shook his head. "No, sir. Of course not, sir."

The commotion drew Joseph Alston into the room, who at this point was accustomed to the volatile political climate his father-in-law was submerged in. Smears against Burr were not uncommon or unheard of; Hamilton's immeasurable influence over the Federalist Party in combination with Burr's unpopular political and personal opinions had ensured he was a target of lasting ridicule, criticism and rumor for years upon years. In addition, the so-called Jeffersonian Republicans were not keen on him either. He had been thoroughly isolated at this point in his career, few allies to speak of, and Jefferson had even planned to ensure that he never seek the Vice Presidency nor the Presidency ever again. Perhaps it was his bias, but he could not see his father-in-law as being as vindictive and cruel as they say. No man could who could treat his beloved wife with such care, who spoiled his son beyond all measure, Burr surely was not a villain. He spoke up out of concern. "Colonel, what has happened?"  
  
  
Burr had his back to the two men, wildly gesticulating his hands as he tried in futility to regain composure. "Thousands of falsehoods are circulating with industry! And now I am informed that Hamilton, with the stroke of his pen in a final act of spite, has damned me the villain for all history. The man aimed to _shoot_ , yet to claims he did not! Claims he meant me no harm, yet _refused_ to recant to words! And now he _damns_ me to Hell!" 

  
Alston could only nod in silent, sympathetic agreement. "Are you certain that you don't want us to stay with you? I feel obliged to say that allies during this time could be beneficial" It was now half-past 8, and the Alston's carriage had been arranged to arrive at 9.

Burr could scarcely entertain the idea. "Of course not. If these Jacobins are planning to burn Richmond to the ground or tar and feather me in the streets, at least allow me to spare my daughter and yourself the indignity." Burr tried to say this in a tone that was light-hearted, but he had long since lost faith in the ability to control mob mentality. "Never you mind. Do you have the list I left for you? Do not lose it." 

"Yes, sir." In the pocket of Alston's coat there were two neatly folded squares of parchment. Ciphers. Burr had carefully constructed his own language so he could communicate in secret among his family during this time, without the fear of would-be vigilantes intercepting his future correspondence to suss out his whereabouts, or tie him back to his family. Perhaps this could be seen as an admission of guilt, writing in secret like this--after all, why hide if you have nothing to hide? But for Burr, it was a symptom his paranoia.

* * *

Under the cover of darkness, Burr dutifully helped load his daughter's belongings into the coach to be whisked back home to South Carolina. Yet, as the journey would take several weeks, Burr had vocal anxieties that they would arrive home during the hottest part of the summer. Malaria was ripe during this time, and it was the primary reason Burr insisted on his family joining him for vacation. He fretted over it, truly. It was something many didn't survive, and as sick as Theodosia was at present, he thought that there should be no chances.  
  
"Limit activities after nightfall--and _do_ as your doctor says, I will hear no more of you neglecting your own health. I expect a full report in the coming months, and I hope with veracity for improvements.

"I will be fine. I worry about _you_ , Papa."  
  
"Nonsense. Papas are strong! I've been through much more perilous times than this, Theo, you know that."

"I know."

"Take care of yourself, Theo. Please. Please, for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this chapter the phrase “dead man tell no tales” was the first thing to come to mind, but I almost didn’t use it because I thought it was a modern phrase Pirates of the Caribbean came up with. No! It’s actually a derivative of a 16th Century proverb “the dead cannot reveal secrets,” and was first used in modern-form in Porcupine’s Works in the late 18th Century, so it checks out!
> 
> I also thought it was funny using a phrase associated/alluding to pirates because… well, if you know, you know & if you don't, you'll see later.


	6. July 21st, 1804; Hudson River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a long preamble explaining some things in my research about Burr. 
> 
> I realized that I neglected to introduce Peter fully in the last chapter, which is important because he’ll be with us for a bit. Peter Yates was an enslaved person born in 1789 (according to B.'s biographer, James Parton, so a record of him MUST have existed at some point but I cannot find it) making him 15 years old at this point in the story & he was acquired by Burr at some point before 1800. 
> 
> I know this much because of the records I could find, Burr’s Census info for 1800 has him registering 2 slaves, with a follow-up record showing that he purchased another enslaved person named Peggy in Dec 1801, bringing the number to 3—& his pre-duel will in 1804 confirming that as well. So that’s the basis of my timeline. I don’t know at one point Burr purchased Peter because the U.S. only started collecting data in 1790, but since I can’t find that data it just looks like that Burr didn’t participate that year. Which reminds me; if you’re a U.S. citizen make sure you fill out the Census this year! Deadline’s coming up soon!  
> Anyway, Peter was Burr’s ‘favorite’ valet. He’s described by Burr as being “the most intelligent & well-disposed [black man] I have ever known,” and by James Parton as “a good-natured blunderer.” Burr had all of his enslaved persons (of which he had 6 over his life) be taught how to read & write (even paying for Peggy to attend a local school when she asked for it) so we know Peter was well-educated, positive, friendly, clumsy and/or goofy, & maybe a bit adventurous too, given how often he traveled with Burr.
> 
> I just wanted to point all of this out because even though I am essentially writing Peter Yates like an original character, I want to acknowledge that Peter was still a real person who had his own thoughts, feelings, and dreams who, regardless of how kindly Burr treated him, was still owned against his will by this man.

_**July 21, 1804** _

At exactly 9:45 P.M., there was a gentle rapping at the Colonel’s front door. Three soft knocks, each with a second’s pause in between. _Tap… tap… tap…_

This was the signal that was agreed upon—to alleviate Burr’s paranoia and ensure that the person on the other end was a friend, not foe. The moonlight shone into the front room through the cracks in the Venetian blinds, otherwise the only light source was the singular candle in Peter Yates’ hand. Peter, who had been listening in silence, leapt to his feet, pressing himself practically to the door.  
  
“Who is here?”  
  
“Sam Swartwout,” said a graveled voice.  
  
The name was familiar; as a matter of fact the Colonel had told Peter that Sam would be accompanying the two of them on their newest adventure, yet Peter persisted with his questions. “What is the password that Colonel Burr gave you?”  
  
“Password?” Sam was slightly agitated. “He didn’t give me a password.”  
  
“Correct.” Peter softly unlocked the door and greeted the man, who despite looking to be nearly his age (if not a year or two older) was at least a foot taller. He had a portly frame and a round face, with a bottom lip packed with snuff. Peter willed himself not to gape. “The Colonel is asleep in his study, I was just about to wake him.”  
  
“I’ll do it. Just bring his things do the dock,” Sam gestured with a twitch of his eyebrows towards a pair of trunks and a hatbox set by the door. “They’ll be leaving soon.”  
  
“Yes, sir."  
  


* * *

Without the courtesy of knocking, Sam shoved his way into the room Peter had dictated—third door on the right. He navigated carefully as his eyes adjusted to the dark, following the source of snoring. Colonel Burr was sprawled in an undignified display across the couch; mouth wide, clothes askew, in a state of partial undress—perhaps in the deepest sleep he had the pleasure of having since the morning of that fateful duel. Unfortunate for him, it was time to get up.  
  
“COLONEL BURR.”  
  
A yelp. Burr rolled off the couch, belly-first against hard wood. He groaned. The younger man made no effort to help him up, straining to hide his amusement. He scrambled absentmindedly for his pocket watch, seemingly panicked. “Good God, what time is it?”  
  
“Almost 10 o’ clock. Had your boy take your trunks down to the dock if that is all you’re taking?”  
  
Burr nodded. “I see no use is over indulging myself with trunks. I’ve only prepared necessities and personal documents. I am sure I’ll be back here.” He hesitated for a moment, adding, with a foreboding shrug, “Whatever is left of this place, at any rate…”  
  
Sam made a fist. “You still have friends here, Colonel. No one will set foot on this property as long as I’m here.”  
  
Burr smiled, grateful. “Good man.”

* * *

  
The July air was smothering, even long after the sun had set and night was at a peak. The two men stepped onto the porch, Sam hovering behind and towering over the unimposing 5-foot-6-inches Burr. He had a hand on his shoulder, glancing in all directions like assassins were expected to descend from the surrounding greenery. But no such threat came, and the streets remained silent. Burr let out a breath that he, quite honestly, did not realize he was holding. Why was he nervous? Why did the prospect of being outside terrify him? He straightened his frame, descending the steps to meet with Peter who had returned to escort them. Burr lowered his voice. “How many people did you see?”  
  
“Few. Five or ten in total, sir. No one that I believe would recognize you.”  
  
“Good.” Unprompted, he grinned, tapping him on the shoulder in a way to express his fondness. “I can always rely on you, _mon petit espion_.” Peter gave a wide, prideful smile.  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
To have company with him during this time was a relief; Burr felt less compelled to glance over his shoulder, or bristle at the slightest movement outside his peripheral. It comforted him so much that his regular disposition was beginning to surface; his typical unwavering cheer and charisma Burr was so collectively known, admired and despised for. Known by the people of Congress and the higher societal circles of New York, Pennsylvania, and his home state of New Jersey—the type to call a newcomer across the room and introduce him to no less than fifteen of his colleagues or make idle conversation with every face, familiar or not, that he happened upon on the streets. Admired by the young country’s fervent patriots, both those who fought in Burr’s company and the new generation of starry-eyed youths, and, most importantly—to Burr, anyway—the women. Despised, Burr was, by Federalist and Anti-Federalist alike—a common bond they had, if nothing else, and a sentiment he assumed (correctly) would only grow in the coming months. But Burr was a resilient man; if New York chose to revile and ostracize him from society, he’d simply pull himself up, pack his things and make his mark somewhere else.   
  


* * *

  
Promptly at 10:00PM, the so-called three merry men departed on a barge to take them across the Hudson into New Jersey. From there, Burr hoped with the help of a friend to procure a carriage that could eventually take him and Peter down through the southern states. That was his hope, but Burr suspected he would be taking several detours along the way. After all, he was in no rush. “Heigh ho!” He proclaimed, sitting cross-legged on the deck, finger in the air. “Onward to Perth Amboy!” Peter and Burr were alone on the bow of the ship, with the remaining passengers having gone below to sleep with the exception of young Sam, who was sea-sick and struggling somewhere along the hull. Burr was far too animated to sleep; the night seemed to bring out his mischievous side. “Did I ever tell you how, as a young boy, I wanted to be a sailor?”  
  
“No, sir?”  
  
Burr tipped his head back, deep in a fond reminiscence. “That was the dream all us city boys had, back in my day, at least before the Revolution. Sailing the open seas… boundless adventures… scuffles with pirates…”  
  
“Pirates?” Peter interjected, politely.  
  
“Pirates! Yes! Perhaps even… becoming a pirate yourself. Though, alas, my plan was foiled before I even left the port!”  
  
“What happened, sir?”  
  
“I ran away,” Burr admitted. His whimsical tone shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “I have always… had an easy time adjusting to change. Theodosia used to say she supposed I could wake up in a new town, in a new country every day for the rest of my life and find a happy life for myself.”  
  
“Your daughter?”  
  
“No, my wife. She supposed that’s what I would do after she died… take Theo and move somewhere else—maybe I should have listened. Maybe none of what has happened would have come to be…” Burr sighed and suddenly, like a spring, his mood rebounded to a new height. “But I suppose that’s what we’re doing now, eh, Peter? A couple of sailors on a voyage to new territory? Heigh ho, adventure awaits!”  
  
Peter listened intently to everything Burr had said, nodding or changing his expression wherever he thought appropriate. Burr touched his wrist and grinned. “Now, back to the story! So you see, as a child I had a desperate belief that, secretly, my mother’s midwife had swapped me out with a more fortunate child—I had neither piety, nor proclivity, nor desire to behave in a way that was befitting a preacher’s son. I hated it, to be truthful, and my uncle hated me for it. When I had reached my tenth year I could no longer bear living in that house and ran away to a local dock to seek a job as cabin boy. Yet, within three days of procuring this arrangement—as I was swabbing the deck, who do I see but my dear uncle running towards me from shore!”  
  
“Oh no!”  
  
"Oh, yes!" Burr was becoming progressively more animated the longer he spoke. He lived to entertain children, after all. “Oh! When I tell you that in that moment an intense fear gripped me—more than I have ever known or will ever experience again! I had to think quickly and, in a haze of adrenaline, I latched onto the mast and shimmed my way to the top! Perhaps ten, twenty feet off the deck! And from my new vantage point, I hung until my little arms were sore and splintering, refusing to come down until my uncle swore that he would not deliver due punishment for my little adventure. And just like that, my dreams were dashed!”  
  
“And you didn’t get punished?”  
  
“For now!” Burr replied impishly. “But future punishments would come… as they always did.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“The same that happened to all the children of clergymen,” Burr took his palm and repeatedly thwacked it against the wood, raising his voice in a manner to mock a passionate sermon: “ _Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him! Repent! Repent!_ ” The action caused Peter to wince, prompting Burr to stop immediately. “I pledged to myself long ago such a thing would never happen in my household… which is a promise I intend to keep. Punishment breeds anger and animosity… not respect and understanding.” Peter did not respond, not wanting to get into an uncomfortable conversation—or perhaps willing himself not to, to not overstep some boundary that he had set for himself, or been set for him. It prompted Burr to change the subject, to lighten the mood once again.  
  
“The stars, Peter! Look at the stars!” Burr reclined onto his back, pointing up at what he perceived to be a constellation. “Now, let us see… ah! I believe that is… _Centarus_ —maybe?” Despite his enthusiasm of stargazing, Burr’s eyesight had grown considerably weak without aid of his spectacles—a consequence of his long nights reading by candlelight. Far off objects lost their definition and shape, and the stars were blotches on an inky backdrop, out-of-focus and hopelessly difficult for him to differentiate one from another. He squinted. “Bah! No matter! No astronomers will penalize us if we make up a few, eh?” He grinned. “Tell me what you see, Peter.”  
  
Peter did as he was told, and laid back. He squinted. “It all… looks the same, sir.”  
  
“I suppose it does, but tell me what you _see_ —with your mind, Peter! What does your mind see?” Peter squinted even harder. Slowly pictures were beginning to form; _a jagged smile, a pot for cooking, various triangles of all sizes_ —“Ah! I get it!”  
  
“There we go, Peter! Sometimes it’s not what you see, but what you imagine!”   
  


* * *

  
Peter & Burr spent the following hours in much the same position, laughing and concocting stories until their joints were sufficiently sore from the pressure of lying on hard planks. By 2AM they elected to finally retire to their cot, but not before Peter finally broached the question that had been stewing in his mind the last several days. “Sir, if you… don’t mind, I would like to ask a question.”  
  
“Ask away, my boy!”  
  
“Do you regret what happened to Mr. Hamilton, sir?”  
  
Burr’s reply was immediate—characteristically calm and uncharacteristically cold: “Not in the slightest. Why?”  
  
“B...Because he was your _friend_ , sir.” Peter’s voice faltered. He was not so much horrified or scared at the proclamation, but confused.  
  
“He was, perhaps,” Burr admitted. “Once. A long time ago. Theo quite enjoyed the company of the eldest Hamilton daughter. But that time has passed. General Hamilton made it evident over a period of years that my friendship was not something to be valued. Rather he would prefer to strengthen political alliances through attacking my own character. For that reason I do not feel guilt. He brought it on himself.” Peter’s face fell a little more.  
  
“But to _kill_ him, sir?”  
  
Burr turned and looked Peter in the face. His face and manner were suddenly very tense—intense. He did not mince words. “If you knew the rumor General Hamilton had spread about me, you would understand I did what needed to be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the added delay. I have chronic headaches that get especially bad in the summer season so I’ve been lethargic (and a little lazy.) Also I realized quickly despite reading every bio on Burr & knowing the ins&outs, there’s so much that happens to him between now & the end (ie. his death) that I needed a chapter outline so I can keep on track & not get overwhelmed, etc. etc. So, things should be more updating more consistently from this point on now that I’ve started it and gotten a few chapters ahead of myself. Sorry & thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**_July 22, 1804_**  
  
Even after the trio retired to the small room they rented below deck, Burr stayed awake through the remainder of the night. He was much more of a night owl anyway, and the nap he had taken earlier in the night was enough to keep him going in high spirits. But the change in scenery—the sway of his hammock, the gentle sounds around him—in combination with the crisp sea air, all further served to invigorate him. Gone were his worries. Gone were his fears. He felt less like a disgraced fugitive, and much more like the wide-eyed adventurer of his boyhood. A stowaway on a boat, hoping to be whisked away to some foreign land to start life anew. He felt _young_.  
  
As the boat bordered on Staten Island, he began to hear music—boisterous in volume and high in energy. Burr imagined in his mind’s eye a group of partygoers, gathering on the docks to escape the muggy July air with a raucous affair by the sea. The room was too dark for Burr to check the time on his pocket watch, but he imagined it to be well past 3AM. The band seemed to pay no mind to this; Fifes, and drums, whistles of all sorts… ah, fiddles! And laughter, so much laughter. Burr wondered what the topic of conversation was. Was it a casual event, or was it hosted in someone’s honor? And in that case, who was the host? How many? Who was in attendance? Someone he knew? Are they enjoying themselves? Burr cycled through all these thoughts, subconsciously out of habit, as he himself was no stranger to throwing parties that lasted long into the next morning so these minute details seemed to intrigue him. Then, he though, perhaps it was a late 4th of July celebration? Burr had become privy to these so-called _‘celebrations’_ ; in the last decade or so, the newest generation of hot-blooded youth had transformed this commemorative day into just another excuse to drink wine and be merry among themselves—while they turned up their noses as the veterans of the Revolution rotted in gutters, or drowned in their debts. They often did not stop at July 5th, and instead extended the remainder of the month.  
  


Not that Burr was particularly defensive of the holiday in question. In truth, he disliked with great assiduity; in Burr’s eyes, it was a hollow holiday that espoused ideals of peace and freedom, propping up some veterans—the ‘victors’; those who served with distinction or eagerly sat on the front lines—in an idolatry manner while all others were left to die, penniless and in pain on the wayside. The ‘losers.’ To the average American, Burr was a _loser_. A loser, and a coward, and a cheat—all lies. His status as a veteran—as a war hero—no longer seemed to matter the moment his opinions became disagreeable. His talk about the Revolution to anyone but his fellow soldiers would be met with skepticism or disbelief as if he was telling some sort of tale. But Burr was a hero; the same as Lafayette, the same as Laurens, Washington—and the same as Hamilton. He was _there_. He _risked his life_ for this country, and almost lost his life in doing so--he was _proud_ of that. And yet here he was, being smuggled down river in the dead of night. Like a criminal. Like a coward. Like a _loser_.  
  
He hated it at its inception, and has hated it every year since, yet this year's commemoration was particularly despicable.

As Burr's fury towards Hamilton had continued to increase (mostly for the latter's inability to recognize and therefore reconcile the reason Burr was upset), they had set the date for their fatal encounter on the 28th of June. This grace period of nearly two weeks allotted the men time to set their affairs in order if it should be their lot to fall; Burr had set aside nearly every letter and nearly every document he had in a series of five blue boxes, appointing his Van Ness and Swartwout as his executors and appealing to Theodosia's husband to take care of his abysmal financial situation. He bequeathed trinkets to his step son, mementos to Nathalie de Lage (a French refugee whom he had taken in during the Revolution), and proclaimed all his apologies and undying love to his daughter. He was, perhaps for the first time in his life, fully cognoscente of his morality, and it had sobered his mood considerably.

On the night of July 4th, Burr had been invited to attend a gathering at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street, an invitation he had begrudgingly accepted and, in retrospect, wished he had declined. No one had engaged him, or acknowledged him, or seemed to notice his presence at all; the Society of Cincinnati largely hated him, so he struggled to understand what he was meant to be doing there. He huddled at a corner table, hunched and scowling, all too hypersensitive to the sounds and sights around him.  
  


The music; _grating._

The smell of alcohol; _nauseating._

The people; _disgusting.  
  
  
_

"Oh, good sirs! I am offended you lot would start the festivities without the grace of my presence!"

Burr froze. He didn't dare look up. He knew all too well who it was. There he was-the curator of the event; the Society's _President_.

"Never, General Hamilton, never!" An amused voice shouted from across the room. John Trumbull? "There is no party without you!"  
  
  
"It is the truth!" Hamilton walked right past Burr's table, so close their arms almost brushed. There is no conceivable way that he could not have noticed Burr's presence, yet chose to ignore him. "Now then, gentlemen and fellow patriots! I propose a toast!" His words were met with rowdy agreement and soon glasses were raised amid a chorus of _clink, clink, clink._ Burr buried himself deeper into his coat. Whereas Burr was sullen and introspective, unable to allow himself the pleasure of company, Hamilton strode about the room with such gaiety and grace that it had stunned him. Truly. He did not understand it. Was putting up a front? Or, was he so confident in his dueling ability that July 11th was no cause of alarm to him? Burr sat in silence for close to two hours before he had given up for the night; his fellow patriots were considerably drunk at this stage, hopping onto tables and dancing in an undignified way. The laughter was deafening. Not a word had been spoken to Burr the entire time, but this was about to change.   
  
Hamilton had leapt onto the tavern's bar, proclaiming another toast before encouraging his fellow Revolutionaries to indulge him in his drunken, off-key rendition of General Wolfe's fabled song, _"How Stands the Glass Around?"_ Burr did not think it at the time, but in hindsight the song choice was quite prophetic; the meaning had muddled over time, but the legend states that General Wolfe wrote and sang the song the night before he died in a battle long ago. Was it intentional? Did Hamilton know his own fate? He couldn't have possibly. Burr had gotten up to leave, head still hung low, turning towards the door.

" _Why, soldiers, why? Should we be melancholy--_ Colonel Burr! Are you leaving so soon? Come, sing!" Hamilton beckoned him the crowd of joining voices. Burr was incensed; he had known he was there the entirety of the night, yet waited for this opportune time. For what? To embarrass him? To seem cordial? Burr curled his fists, and stormed out of the _Fraunces_.

Who would have know that a week later, Hamilton would be dead, and Burr would be more reviled than he ever could have possibly imagined?

  
  
With his mood suddenly and considerably sour, Burr turned on his side and tried to allow the motion of the ship to lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Burr-Hamilton Tavern story is probably one of my favorite anecdotes. It's honestly hard to believe because it seems so prophetic in hindsight; the song choice, especially.
> 
> 'How Stands the Glass Around?' (Also called 'Why, Soldiers, Why?') was reported to have been written by General James Wolfe the night before he was killed in a battle in Quebec. It happened during The Seven Years' War, yet gained lasting popularity since the legend had Wolfe posthumously declared a hero. It almost seemed like a sign, don't you think?


	8. Perth Amboy, New Jersey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another yet another Peter Yates update! 
> 
> My math on the timeline of when Burr acquired which slave was off—in Burr’s 1804 will in the same sentence where he talks about Peter, he specifies who he is talking about to his daughter by saying: “the black boy I bought last fall from Mr. Turnbull.” So now we have dual conformations that:
> 
> 1\. Peter was indeed a child (from all my research I’ve done, Burr was notoriously kind to children so I can only hope he treated him as kindly, but there is no way that Peter’s age should be understated.) 
> 
> 2\. He was brought into the Burr family in the fall of 1803.So rather than: Peter, Peggy & Nancy—it was Nancy, Peggy & Peter. It might seem like an inconsequential detail to clarify, but like I said, it’s my responsibility to tell Peter’s story as much as Burr’s. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

As it was with most mornings, no sooner had Colonel Burr fallen asleep was he abruptly, rudely awakened from it.  
  
A sudden turbulence from outside the boat had rocked it so violently Burr, defenseless and unaware in his sleep, was thrown from his hammock and crashed to the rough, un-sanded planks. A splinter dug into his right cheek, jolting him into a state of panic. He groaned. At the same instance, Burr’s body had landed feet from Sam’s face, who reflexively pushed himself further away and closer to the wall. “Fuck!” Peter—i _n response of the response to the response_ —yelped, at a level and pitch characteristic of a boy whom had only just started to undergo puberty.  
What a scene; it was barely 8AM and the cabin was already so wrought with tension.  
  
Hesitantly, called to his master—supposing him to be knocked cold or, worse, dead. “Sir?” Burr’s body lay motionless for a moment before coming to consciousness. He pushed himself up on his elbows, creaking joints and all. His eyes were fogged, his joints were stiff, still adjusting to his rude awakening—disoriented and bleary—but his wit was impeccable as always. A consequence for having the wind knocked out of him, he sputtered and gasped in place of what he intended to be laughter. “Well—good morning, gentlemen! Have we reached port yet?”  
Sam shut his eyes, grumbling.  
  
“We better. _Boy_ , go ask the captain how much longer.” Peter sprung up, slipping on his cloth shoes and navigating his way out of the cabin. Burr grimaced a bit as he fully adjusted to the pain in his ribs, plucking the spur from his cheek. But all in all, he was remarkably resilient for a man of his age. He lifted himself to his stand, stretching liberally and taking in all the cracks and pops that came with it. He turned to his companion.  
  
“Are you still in bad order, my friend?”  
  
Sam fixed him with a defeated stare, grumbling to himself how he just wasn’t made to be on a boat. The fact that he had yet to eat since shortly before 9PM the night before compounded onto his nausea. His stomach twisted and gurgled. “ _God!”_  
  
The elder was sympathetic. “Once we are permitted to dock, I will send Peter with money to purchase some ginger for you,” promised Burr. “Or perhaps Truxton will oblige you with some if I inquire of it.”  
  
“ _Commodore_ Truxton?”  
  
“The same.”  
  
“Why?” Sam knew very little of him, but knew the name. Vaguely. Though not as young as the plucky Peter Yates, he only preceded him by five years. At twenty, Sam still knew very little of the world; he had no knowledge of the Revolution, and talk of the Quasi-War had flown over his head as a teenager. He was still malleable; his opinions on people, politics, places and things started and ended with what the figures he admired thought about them. All he knew was Commodore Truxton was one of the six commanders appointed to the new US Navy by George Washington, and that he had received some sort of gold medal some years before Must be important, then.  
  
“He is one of my closest contacts in New Jersey and I have on good authority that he is both home and immediately available. My intention is to call on him in hopes of purchasing one of his horses to aid me further south.”  
  
“Is that… okay? I assumed you wanted to keep to yourself. He is government affiliated, isn’t he? What if he holds you for running?”  
  
  
Burr considered the possibility. “Perhaps he could—though I should hope not. But the risk of the adventure is the most enjoyable part!”

* * *

  
The barge was soon to dock and its occupants were free to depart whenever they wished—extremely welcome news to Sam, who ran off the boat as if his life depended on it. Burr and Peter, however, took their time gathering their things; Burr had two trunks and a hatbox, and Peter had a small cloth bag that essentially held what was his entire world—a change of clothes, a hairpin trinket that belonged to his mother, and a small leather journal Burr had given him to voice his private thoughts. The real purpose of the journal was for literacy practice, but when Burr presented it him as a ‘welcome’ gift once Peter was brought into the home, he swore on his honor that he would never violate the boy’s privacy by looking at it, unless asked. It was his, to write and speak however he wanted—a luxury Peter never had before, nor did he take for granted now. He took it everywhere with him, even before experimenting about what he could write in it, just out the enjoyment being able to hold something that was tangibly his own. But eight months later, Peter wrote everything; descriptions about people and objects in the house, people on the street, the places he went, arbitrary rankings of his favorite foods, carefully copied poems that he saw in the Colonel’s books—so much so that he had already requested more paper from Burr on three separate occasions. He supposed now that he would have much more to write about, on their adventures. He wondered when he could show it to his mother. She would be so pleased to see how his education was heading, he just knew it.

Burr briefly stopped to fiddle with the contents of his trunks, distributing its weight so it would be less of a strain for Peter and himself to lift off the boat. Although the summer’s heat was the same if not worse than the day before, the air was a welcome change to the stuffiness of being below deck. Sam Swartwout, squatting, flagged the two of them down as they approached the end of the dock. Burr let out a pleased noise, gesturing forward with his hand. “Ah-ha! There it is, Gentlemen!”

At an agreeable distance from the water, the structure ahead of them was impressive; a sizable English-style cottage, comparable to his beloved Richmond Hill. But whereas Burr felt he had far too much space in his home, each room in the home was no doubt utilized by his innumerable children and extended family members. And soon, hopefully, wayward travelers like himself. “Peter, hand me your things. I have a job for you.” The boy, eager to please, straightened and nodded as if he were given military orders. “Go up ahead for us and see if the man of the house is available. Ask for Commodore Truxton, tell him a friend would like to see him.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” There he was, Burr’s little buccaneer.

“And if anyone presents you with trouble, tell him you are on the orders of the Vice President.”  
Peter skipped ahead, brushing his fingers along cattails as he passed through the overgrowth. He approached a wrought iron gate, surrounded by a structure of brick and arched in such a way that it made it look as if someone important lived there. From beyond the gate, Peter was able to see the home more closely; it was two-story, with a large veranda that stretched around the outside that doubled as a balcony for the upstairs. It had two high chimneys, and was shelled in a layer of cobble and weathered bricks. Very nice, Peter thought to himself. He allowed himself a moment to stare at it before resuming his business. There was a black woman in front of him now on the opposite side of the gate. She was dressed plainly, like Peter was. There was a quiet, mutual understanding.

"Hello..." said the woman. She had a weary face, partially obscured by the bonnet she wore, casting shadows on her features. She was tall, buxom, and very dark.

“Hi!” Peter was friendly as always, perhaps overly so. She continued to stare.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Peter!” He said, but after a short silence realized that statement didn’t offer any real information. “Oh! My master asks of me to ask if Commodore… Trust….Trustram…—”

“ _Truxton._ ” Her correction was immediate. This exchange must happen a lot.

“Yes! He would like to see him, if he is home.”

"Who is your master?"  
  
"Mr. Colonel Aaron Burr, the Vice President."

"Please wait here." She retreated up the steps of the house. Peter listened to the soft sounds around him, the rustling of the wind, the distant calls of birds, impatiently bouncing from foot-to-foot. The woman was gone perhaps two minutes before she returned, this time behind led by the man in question. Commodore Truxton was tall and wide-set, but not quite fat. He appeared to be Colonel Burr's age or older, with a full head of gray hair that he refused to power or remedy in any way. At least he _had_ hair; Burr was slowly losing his and growing remorseful of it. _Ageing is dreadful, Peter, I do not recommend it if it can be helped,_ he joked once, tracing a finger along his high hairline.  
  
"Where is the Colonel?" Commodore Truxton was curt with him. He appeared very anxious and anticipatory of something. What that was the young teenager could not be sure.  
  
"He is down at the dock, he told me to first inquire if you were home so he may see you and inquire help." Truxton was fumbling to unlock the gate, already brushing past Peter in a huff. As Burr came into view, he raised a hand in greeting, calling out to him fondly. Commodore Truxton returned the warmness, which immediately put the party at ease. There would be no fear of being held captive, after all. Truxton regarded him calmly, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

Burr opened the conversation, lightly. “We have traveled a long night down river to see you, Commodore. A dish of good coffee would not come amiss, if you could be so accommodating."  
  
Truxton grunted affirmatively, turning eyes back to the house. "Mrs. Truxton and myself have just breakfasted, but the kitchen is still open. It would please me to have your company" The two spoke in the typical pleasantries all the way to the stoop of Thomas Truxton's home. There was no questions posed as to what Burr was doing in New Jersey or if there were any recent changes to his personal life. The answers were immediate and obvious to anyone who had been paying attention, and Truxton, a true New Yorker no matter how far the _USS Constellation_ took him abroad, was as nosy as they come. But he wouldn't allow himself to broach the subject--out of respect, or out of fear, he wasn't quite sure--and Burr was offering no information so the matter stayed silent. Instead they talked of banal things like the weather, mutual appreciations of New Jersey's scenery, and Burr facilitated the introductions of both Samuel Swartwout and Peter Yates. Of the house's occupants, there were seven, all parading out of the house onto the piazza: Mr. Truxton, Mrs. Truxton, their black servant (whom Peter discovered was named _Hannah_ ), their 22-year old daughter Elizabeth and, to Burr's own surprise and joy, three children. Anna Maria, 8, William, 14, and Evelina, 16.

Burr tossed his hands up, alternately lavishing them with compliments and attention. He kept small sums of coins in his pocket, both for emergencies and situations such as this; he had them each close their eyes, placing a dollar coin in their palm. He watched them squeal with delight to discover their riches, clutching it tightly and stumbling over to their mother to show them. It was the least Burr could do; no matter his state of mind, no matter what was happening in his life, children were always a source of calmness to him. Having lost three of his own children early into his marriage, he filled his home with French Revolution refugees, orphans, starving artists and otherwise sufferers of the cruel new world they lived in. He had a unique understanding just how _bad_ life could get, and resigned himself to the responsibility of being as open and gentle as he could. At least when it came to children; to same people, that was Aaron Burr's only saving grace.

  
After a half hour of breakfast on the piazza, consisting of coffee and hearty soups, the mood had sufficiently settled for Burr to state his business. He spoke through mouthfuls of sausage, cheese and chowder. "Commodore, I should tell you of my intentions to travel further south, but alas I have no horses to speak of." His statement hung in the are, implying a question. Commodore responded friendly, but stern.

  
"It would inconvenience me to part with my horses, though I am sympathetic, sir." Perfectly cordial and flat; a Gentleman's response. The sun was approaching the point of midday. "It would please my family and myself to have your company, but soon it will be far too late for you to travel. Might I suggest you stay the night. I can accompany you to Cranbury tomorrow, where I know a man who can sell you horses."  
  
"I know the man," Burr interjected. Cranbury Township was a short distance away from the resting place of his grandfather and father, as well as his alma mater, the College of New Jersey. He knew the area well. He visited often. "If that would be more agreeable to you, of course. I would hate to be trouble." He looked to his left, "the boy is staying with me. Do you have a room to accommodate him as well?"  
  
"Of course. And... Mr. Swartwout?" Sam shook his head.  


"I am only here to make sure Mr. Burr didn't have any trouble crossing the Hudson. I should go back shortly." His voice was glum, realizing that meant he had to get back on the boat.

  
"Ah, so soon?"

Sam checked his pocket watch. "Sooner than soon." He stood up and exchanged polite goodbyes and was accompanied by Burr down the hill--this time with a generous fistful of gingered nuts from the Truxton kitchen.

* * *

The remainder of the day passed as if Burr had arrived to some fantastical resort for a late summer vacation. He sat all the Truxton children and Peter in a circle, regaling them with the typical stories, with extra theatrics added to please the littlest of the group. Revolutionary War stories were particularly popular with children, especially ones that involved his insight to the heroic characters of George Washington, Benedict Arnold and the French hero, Marquis de Lafayette (whose real name was far too long for Burr to remember and far too cumbersome to pronounce.) Certain embellishments were made for the sake of entertainment (for example, Burr played up Washington's historic image and played down his own dislike of him), but the historic details were kept in tact. The children were always particularly shocked to find out that not only was Burr an aide-to-camp under George Washington, but was a soldier under Benedict Arnold. Burr described the horrible Canadian winters he and his young Continentals were subjected to--the bone-chilling, muscle tightening cold, the limited rations of food, the unforgiving terrain. The missions to capture Quebec were all destined to be failures and Burr knew in the back of his mind just as much, but his eagerness for adventure had won out over his sensibilities. The lesson Burr took from it? Never take the heat of summer for granted. Yet, ironically for him, a couple of years later that lesson would also be challenged.

Burr and Peter were treated to an impressive dinner, and sent on their way to their respective bedrooms. To Peter's relief, Burr's room was across from his. Not that he was nervous to be in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar (white) people, but it was still comforting to be within earshot of him. At 7PM he sat in the Colonel's guest bedroom in a wooden chair in the corner. It was much too small, like a doll's chair. He balanced himself precariously. "Will we be staying here, sir?"  
  
"For now." Burr was washing himself about the face with soup and water, hewing off the week's beard. “We will be staying with the Commodore until tomorrow morning. Commodore will accompany us to Cranbury, where I will purchase us—you and I—a coach and some horses that will take on the next leg of our journey."  
  
"Where will be go?"   
  
"To Philadelphia.”

  
“Who will we see there, sir?” Peter was endlessly inquisitive. Any other man without Burr's patience may have drove him from the room ten minutes ago.  
  
“Charles Biddle. He visited Richmond Hill recently, if you recall.” 

“The large white man?” Peter mused. “Dark hair, and…” the boy grabbed his cheeks, pulling them apart with an accompanying pop to mimic excess fat in the face.  
  
“ _Peter!_ That is hardly polite!” The boy had remarkable candor, Burr had to admit. He personally found it amusing and it often instigated light-hearted conversations between the two, but what Burr found endearing, many other men in his position would no doubt find disrespectful. For Peter’s sake, he had to discourage it.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir.” He appeared sheepish, deflated.  
  
“Yes, the… _large_ white man,” Burr conceded, guilty that he had dashed his enthusiasm. He winked. “You will not say such things to him directly, I hope.”   
  
“No, sir!”   
  
“Good. It so happens his family is away for the remainder of the summer so he offered us lodging for however long we choose. The city is nice this time of year, I think it will be a nice change of pace."  
  
“And Ms. Celeste is there too, sir?” Peter’s tone held no ill intent, simply a child’s curiosity—but his expression implied he knew more than Burr would care for him to know. He turned to him, eyes darting in a secretive way. His voice was accusatory.  
  
“Who told you of her?”  
  
“Ms. Peggy.”  
  
“She did, did she?”   
  
“I hope you do not mind she let me practice my reading… by…” Peter paused thoughtfully, searching his vocabulary for a word that he was sure would impress Colonel Burr, “— _perusing_ your letters.”  
  
“Ah… is that all?” Burr appeared relived, having only divulged minut details of her to Peggy, as a part of their casual correspondence while he was away from Richmond Hill. A name; a description; a witty phrase he would record both for posterity and as a teaching moment for Peggy. Now, his letters concerning Celeste to his daughter—long, languishing and deeply personal—was a far different, far more embarrassing story. He chose his words carefully, to give an impression of indifference. “But… if you would prefer something suitable to read in your leisure time, I would prefer you inquire _me_ directly, Peter.”

“You did not answer my question, sir.”   
  
“Yes… she resides in Philadelphia.” Burr kept his tone curt. He desperately wanted to change the topic.   
  
“And you are going to court her, sir?” _Oh no._ _Not this question._  
  
Burr was endlessly embarrassed. “I am regretful that opportunity may have passed. I have no intention of renewing my suit unless feelings are reciprocated.” It had been over a year since they last spoke, now. Surely she had moved on.   
  
“I bet she’s pretty. You always fancy the prettiest ladies.”  
  
Burr conceded his point, but felt it too integral of a teaching moment to pass up, so he posed a question. “Peter… what else do the women I fancy have in common? Have you noticed?”  
  
Peter was at a loss, blankly staring in hopes of an answer. A trick question? He hadn’t a clue.   
  
“Intelligence, Peter! Intelligence! Meeting my wife was perhaps the most singularly poignant moment of my growth as a man—no, I should say ‘as a person.’ She affirmed in me the belief that women have the capacity to learn, and grow, and be educated as much as you and I, or any man for the matter. Women should be adored for their intellectual achievements with the same vigor as society would their beauty, or virtue, or familial status. Women have souls, Peter! To truly love a someone, one should acknowledge all parts of it.”  
  
“Okay!” Peter interjected with enthusiasm. Though, at fifteen he did not have the worldly experience nor the capacity to care about such things. He barely even knew what love was; the only person he had ever shown an infatuation towards was the older daughter of the tavern keeper on the adjunct of Nassau & Spruce Street. Abraham Martling’s Tavern; the one where Colonel Burr always met with those stuffy Tammany Hall men. It was far too dark and the keeper never opened the windows, which smoked up the whole place and stung Peter’s eyes and nose. He only saw her once, through a window, but had been smitten with her all week. He didn’t even know her name, or anything about her. But she was pretty; he wondered when he would see her again? 

Burr stared off into space, fondly musing. "She was the most intelligent woman I have seen in a quite a long time... perhaps it's not proper to say, but she reminded me of my wife. Perhaps that is why I was so attached." He stopped himself. What was he doing? _Who_ was he talking to? "I am tired, Peter. You should sleep as well. We have a full day tomorrow, after all. A lot of ground to cover."   
  
"Aye, aye, sir!"   
  
"Aye, aye."  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I shouldn't have to keep writing notes like these, but I have a compulsive need to over-explain myself and elaborate on information, especially in historical stories like these, so I probably will keep doing it. Once again, everyone in this chapter is based on real people; Truxton, the wife, the children, Celeste, and Hannah. Hannah, I especially wanted to mention because it brings up another unfortunate reality of slavery.
> 
> Commodore Truxton was a slave owner, that is confirmed, but there is very little information about it. So far I have only been able to find ONE paragraph in ONE biography by Eugene S. Ferguson. Truxton had Hannah in his home as early as the 1780's, but in the late 1790's he was influenced by the death of Ben Franklin (one of the few, TRUE anti-slavery Founding Fathers) to give Hannah her freedom--with the condition that she would not be compensated for her labor and she would never be allowed to ask the family for help. 
> 
> The reality is that this happened a lot to enslaved people. Many of them didn't have a place to go, or any money, or any access to freed communities--especially in the early 1800's. The slave population at the time was less than 900,000, and even though that was 1/5th of the population, the majority of them were held in the South. The closest, largest freed communities were in Pennsylvania, which was a difficult trek if you had no way to get there. There wasn't a lot of options for them, even if they were given a chance to be freed. Her age might have also played into her decision to stay, but since records are limited I haven't been able to confirm her age like I have with Peter. For whatever her reason, she decided to stay, and I hope she was treated kindly there.


End file.
